The Beauty of Pigeons
by Ashi-Grey
Summary: Another 'what if they were human' fic! Very fluffy oneshot, follows cannon - Lady/Tramp


**Lady & the Tramp**

**- The Beauty of Pigeons -**

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_"Beauty is everywhere, if one simply remembers to see it."_

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_Mr. John Frederick and Mrs. Agatha Louise Deere are proud to announce the birth of their first child, Lillian Samantha, who was born on Christmas morning, 1909, at 6lbs 6oz. _

Enclosed with the newspaper clipping was a picture, of me as a baby, all rosy-cheeked and big brown eyed, not that you can actually tell that from the photo, of course. Perhaps it was unnecessarily nostalgic of me to be rifling through Mother's keepsake-box, but truth be told I was feeling a little put out.

I had somewhat sadly outgrown the age where running to catch the newspaper was acceptable. No more could I make mud-pies in the back garden without the maid tutting over my muddy dresses. Skipping ropes and hopscotch had been replaced with side-saddle riding and elocution lessons. Perhaps it was the realisation for my parents that there was no son to carry on my father's name (and oh what a name it is – Father has been hailed as the man who made the plough that broke the plains) that has left them disappointed in me. Whatever the reason, I was in the dog-house, so to speak.

My next-door neighbours, on either side, had long been mentors to me: a Scotsman by the name of Joshamee 'Jock' Argo and a long-retired policeman, Thomas 'Trusty' Souter. Both tried, to the best of their ability, to placate my lamenting, but simply put, two bachelors with a combined age of more than eighty are not best equipped to handle a girl of seventeen.

On one particular afternoon, I was more pessimistic of my parent's treatment than usual. I sat on the bench in our garden, with my bonnet pulled moodily to shade my eyes, and listen to Jock and Trusty chatter away on their theory of Mother being pregnant.

Having been home tutored, and an only child, I will readily admit that my knowledge of babies extends only to knowing that one day I would like one. As I explained, somewhat haltingly, that I had no idea where a baby even came from, a man (and I hesitate to call him a man, because he looked perhaps more like a ragamuffin that grew too tall) strolled right up our garden path and eyed me as if I were a prize horse at an auction. Just when Jock had nearly grown a foot with bluster, the man piped up that babies were nothing like I'd hoped they were.

"Babies are nothing but a cute little bundle of trouble." He said "And just you wait. If that baby turns out to be a boy, they'll have no use for you. You're just an expensive, if pretty, little ornament that they're still trying to marry off. They'll just want rid of you, that's what it'll be, you mark my words."

And then he strutted off the way he came, looking as out of place on our street as a common pigeon does among doves.

It was a few months later when my parents finally announced Mother's pregnancy. There was a grand baby shower, which I found myself shut out of. I was in the room, of course, and all Mother's friends cooed over how pretty I looked in my frock and what a Lady I'd grown into, with my thick strawberry blonde curls and my peachy complexion. They asked if I had a suitor, a man who would like me to be his.

"Oh, no." I told them "I've not."

Everyone made sympathetic noises. One lady even patted my hand and offered me a hankie. After that I made my excuses and went to find Father, but that turned out even worse than Mother's friends. All father's friends thought I was a lovely little Lady. They'd been in Father's port, and his brandy, and even those with wedding rings patted my cheek or teased a ringlet with a finger or looked at me from the corner of their eyes. The worst part was my father himself; not one worried glance to check on my wellbeing. No note of concern that these men were more than double my age. Only merriment and frivolity and the excitement of the baby.

I must admit, by the time my baby brother was born, I'd resigned myself to not enjoying his company. I had to eat my words. My baby brother was the most wonderful, magical, hopeful thing I'd ever set my eyes upon. He cried very little, and only with reason, and he grew big and healthy and strong under my mother's doting care.

My mother, on the other hand, grew tense and insular. There was nothing for it, the doctor said, she needed to get out of the house. She needed some time to breath, to rest, and recuperate. Father booked the train, and sent a telegram to Aunt Sarah, asking her to stay with me and the maids and the baby.

Aunt Sarah arrived with two maids in tow. They were wretched, gossipy, snide creatures, more snake than human, and they loved nothing more than to blame me for their short comings. Brass not polished? Lillian hid the cloths. Stairs not swept? Lillian made us plait her hair. Dinner service laid out wrong? Lillian told us to. All of this I could live with. It took a few weeks before the pair of them worked up the audacity to prod further into my shortcomings.

"I hear Lillian's not interested in marriage. Perhaps she'll join a convent?"

"Did you know, Lillian is no use with children. Her poor little brother cries whenever we see her with him."

"Lillian still has a tree-house in their garden – how boyish of her!"

Eventually Aunt Sarah had enough. She bundled me up in my most restrictive clothing, piled us both into a cab, and told the driver to take us to the closest nunnery.

When we arrived, I dragged my feet the entire walk up the stone path to the huge, stone buildings. We waited only a moment to see a Sister, and Aunt Sarah told the woman I was interested in joining their sisterhood. I stood helplessly as a lamb led to slaughter, manners too ingrained to do anything but walk to heel. Perhaps it was when the Sister put a loop of rosemary beads over my head that I panicked. I think it must have been. The next thing I knew, I was running out of the door and off down the road, heading in any direction that was away from Aunt Sarah.

I must admit that I was never brought up to be street-wise. I'd never needed to be before. I soon found myself rushing down darkened alleyways, fearing for my life as a group of men seemed to be following me at best, and stalking me at worst. Their heavy footsteps were drawing closer and closer, and the day felt darker and colder than any day ever had before. I turned the last corner, and just where I was sure should have been a cute little corner shop, was in fact a blocked off dead end, lined with over-flowing bins. The men behind me laughed, and closed in.

I shoved myself backwards as far as I could get. It seemed unbelievable that I was to die here, in the filth and gutter of our world, when I'd been brought up on diamonds and caviar.

Then the ragamuffin, the man who didn't like babies was there, checked shirt sleeves rolled up and skin dark with tan and dirt. He was squabbling with the three men, yelling and shoving and muscling up. Then it was a full blown fight, just him against the three bigger, older men. I shut my eyes and fingered the rosemary, wondering if the convent would actually have been better than death after all.

"Hey, Pidge, you alright?"

The man was alive. The man was alive, and he only had a split lip and a bloody fist to show for it. The other men were gone, and I was scared and relieved at the same time. This man was dangerous in a way the other three couldn't have hoped to be. He was dangerous simply because he made me want to be dangerous too.

He looked at me for a moment, huddled in the corner of that dingey little alley, and then held out his hand to help me up.

"C'mon. You look like you could use a cheering up."

That day turned out to be the best cheering-up day I'd ever had. He snook us into the zoo by distracting the guard with a whistle, and he showed me all the stupid, fun things he likes to do with his days of freedom. I laughed and laughed until my cheeks ached and my corset felt too tight, and as the evening wound down my laughs grew breathier and my heart jumped when he took my hand, and I blushed and looked away when he introduced me to his friends at an Italian restaurant. They thought me an 'adorable Lady', and insisted on setting up a candlelit table for two under the stars. Tramp (and he refused to tell me his real name; said it would ruin his reputation because 'Larry' just doesn't have the same ring as 'Tramp') ordered us a spaghetti dish to share. There was a glass of red wine and bread sticks and washing hanging high up in the streets, all lit by the silver of stars and the warms of the candle.

I'm not ashamed to say he kissed me, as we sat there and twirled our spaghetti and talked of our lives, me of Jock and Trusty and Mother and Father, and him of Peg and Bull and so many others I couldn't remember their names if I tried. He regaled me with tales of high-speed police chases and subterfuge bank robberies and life in the fast lane. He walked me through the park, past the statues and fountains and other lovers there, sneaking time in the dark.

Just when I began to tire of the whole walking affair, we reached the top of the hill, and he pulled me down to sit beside him on the dewey grass.

"Look." He whispered, and his voice was thick was awe "Just look."

And look I did. Of the streets with their twinkling lamps and houses with lights slowly blinking out, as folk turned in for the night. Onwards, to the hills outlined only in inky blackness, and upwards to the deep purple sky, pitted with stars and the huge, full moon.

We fell asleep that night, cocooned together with the stars as a blanket, and when I awoke in the morning it was to a smile I could wake up to every morning for the rest of my life.

Of course, one day is mighty quick to fall in love, and as I'm oft to do, I panicked.

"I must get home; I was due back hours ago!" I wailed, and drowned Tramp's good mood with as much negativity as I could muster "Please, take me home at once!"

A little disappointed with his lack of fighting me, I let him talk me into sneaking into a chicken run to steal a freshly laid egg. I'd never had eggs fresh-fresh, only delivery boy fresh, and somehow the stars in my eyes when I looked at him made it all seem like a good idea.

We were running, then, when the farmer caught us, but I was cumbersome in my dress and he was quick and nimble, and though he stopped and helped me a few times, it was soon inevitable that I would end up caught, and he would escape. And get caught I did. They marched me down to the local police station, and shoved me in a cell with a large, stout man covered in tattoos, and a lady with minimal teeth and maximal hair. Everyone in the jail, it seemed, were singing raucous, outlandish songs, and everywhere was dirty and everyone stared at me in my dress and my pearls.

Then they started talking about Tramp. They spoke of him with a reverence, of the places he'd been and the things he'd done, and then of the women he'd had. I felt so ashamed, so embarrassed, and I didn't even know what to do. I sat in the corner and listened to all the terrible things he'd done and stewed in my own anger.

Aunt Sarah had me collected by a cab, and when we got home she locked me in my room. I cried myself to sleep, too tired and bitter to even remove my dress, and in the morning I ate my breakfast, and stumbled my way up the ladder to my tree-house, where I stayed all day. Jock and Trusty came round, both in attempts to coax me down from my unladylike perch, but neither had any luck although they did make me feel marginally better.

Then Tramp had to saunter round our garden gate, bringing with him a big stick of sugar cane. He greeted me jovially, as though he'd not had me locked up for his bad deeds, and offered me the sugar cane.

I'm not quite sure what I said, exactly, but I ranted and raved at him with enough vigour that he scurried off out our gate with his tail proverbially between his legs. Sensing little else they could do to help, Trusty and Jock left shortly as well.

I'm not sure how long I sat there, watching the sky darken and the rain fall, but at some point as the evening drew on, a man snook into our garden. He scaled the drainpipe, and it wasn't until the shock of watching someone break into my little brother's bedroom window had worn of that I started to scream. Aunt Sarah pulled open her window and shouted at me to stop my incessant racket, but all I could do was shriek and point. She took no notice of me, and slammed her window shut muttering to herself. I wouldn't be surprised if it were about me being possessed by the devil.

Then Tramp was there, and he was doing something about it, asking me what had happened and scaling up to the window in the footsteps of the burglar. I rushed down my ladder as quickly as I could with shaking hands and slippery wet ladder rungs, and bolted across the lawn to the back door. By the time I got upstairs, the banging had stopped from my brother's room, and Tramp was there, holding a broken wrist with a bloody hand. My brother was wailing, his crib knocked over, and the room was a wreck. Tramp gestured towards the fallen curtain.

"He was here to steal your brother. There's quite a market for blonde babies."

I didn't know what to say, but it didn't matter either way. The police burst through the door, fire in their eyes and righteousness in their stance. They took one look at Tramp, and smiled grimly. They said they'd been after him for a long time.

Just when I thought things couldn't get any more tumulus, my parents finally returned home. Mother's hair had regained its lustre, her eyes were clear and bright, and father had a jaunty tweak to his moustache.

"Darling Lillian!" Mother exclaimed, and hugged me tightly before pulling away to examine me "What on earth is the matter?"

The story came out in between inelegant blubbering's, and when I rushed my parents and Aunt Sarah upstairs to see the baby-snatcher, unconscious under the curtain, my father stepped in with a purpose. He hailed the fastest cab, and told them to hurry. I cried the whole way there, tucked into my father's coat, wishing the world would stop raining.

Just as we rounded the final corner to the station, a curdling yowl filled the air. There, in the road, was the police cab that had taken Tramp. He was in the back, looking a little shaken up but all right. I toppled out of my father's lap in my haste, and ran to free Tramp, my fingers like ice in the rain and shaking like little autumn leaves. Father ran to Jock, and it was only then that I realised Trusty had been trapped under the fallen carriage.

Tramp tucked my head against his shoulder and turned me away from the scene. But I could still hear Jock, and I could still feel the rain.

It was our Christmas party. It was just like the baby shower, and I sat with Mother's friends as I had done previously. This time, the topic of discussion was my wedding.

"It was simply beautiful, dear."

"And what a catch; a cultured Englishman!"

"Such a dashing young man too, dare I say!"

I snorted softly into my tea – if only they knew what he was really like! - and made up some excuse or other. It wasn't far down the hallway where I found the doorway to the men's gathering, and peering in I managed to catch Tramp's eye. He was sat with a half-glass of port in one hand, gesturing wildly with the other as he told some undoubtedly false story to his avid listeners. Every so often, he would loosen a finger below his collar, or twiddle with his tie, and I had to thank my lucky stars he'd even gotten dressed up in a 'penguin suit' at all.

"I'm afraid I must depart." He ended his story with "I was married but four months ago; I'm sure you gentlemen know how it is."

I flushed to the roots of my hair and backed quietly from the door, lest anyone hear me there. The floorboard creaked, not that anyone would have heard over the raucous laughter. Tramp slipped out, and grasped my hand in his. We wove through the house, settling on the settee by the fire in the library. He stroked the back of my hand with his.

"I think I'd like to have children, Lady." He muttered softly "A daughter or two or three, just like you." He paused to run a finger through my hair "With your cute little nose and your big brown eyes."

I smiled up at him, and it felt almost painful how much I loved him.

"I'd like a son." I whispered "A little boy who's cheeky and bouncy and just like you."

Then we smiled at each other, because it's so nice being on the same page as the one you love, and we drifted to sleep, with the sound of carol singers in our ears, the smell of Christmas in our noses, and stars in our eyes.

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